With a firm step the king's guest entered the chamber of the injured soldier. Upon a narrow bed lay the trooper, his mustachios appearing unusually red and fierce against his now yellow, washed-out complexion. As the free baron drew near the couch a tall figure arose from the side of the bed.
"How is your patient, doctor?" said the visitor, shortly.
"Low," returned the other, laconically. This person wore a black gown; a pair of huge, broad-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of a thin, long nose, and in his claw-like fingers he held a vial, the contents of which he stirred slowly. His aspect was that of living sorrow and melancholy.
"Has he been conscious again?" asked the caller.
"He has e'en lain as you see him," replied the wearer of the black robe.
"Humph!" commented the free baron, attentively regarding the motionless and silent figure.
"I urged upon him the impropriety of sending for you at the festivities," resumed the man, sniffing at the vial, "but he became excited, swore he would leave the bed and brain me with mine own pestle if I ventured to hinder him. So I consented to convey his request."
"And when I arrived he was still as a log," supplemented the visitor, gloomily.
"Alas, yes; although I tried to keep him up, giving him specifics and carminatives and bleeding him once."
"Bleeding him!" cried the false duke, angrily, glowering upon the impassive and woebegone countenance of the medical attendant. "As if he had not bled enough from his hurts! Quack of an imposter! You have killed him!"